


sweeter than lies

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Descent into Madness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 16:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13616991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He should have noticed, the first pang within his chest should’ve been a warning. He lied to himself, refused to acknowledge the longing he felt. How vulgar it was, disgusting, nauseating, repulsive. The words that described the yearning he felt for Thor. Unnatural to feel such wasn’t towards one’s kin. It should’ve been the first sign.





	sweeter than lies

**Author's Note:**

> In which Loki descends into madness after Thor's fall.

…

“Brothers,” The word spat like venom form thin lips. He choked out painful, as if the word itself would kill the speaker. He hissed the word, tasted foulness, bitterness, bile, hate and spit. The lie left his lips, silenced with the swipe of his arm, sending glass bottles of ink crashing to the floor. The glass shattered tinkling and chiming softly like the desperate patter of rain.

The shards glittered like diamonds amongst coal. He would never be a shining diamond, he would always be black as coal. He loathed himself. How pitiful and disgusting he had become. A monster. Ink pooled at his feet, warm and thick like blood. He laughed at the sight, a cruel laugh, one without mirth. The humor wasn’t lost on him. Oh no, this was what Loki thrived on, such irony, the inked stained his toes blue. His true colors beginning to show.

…

Lies. He knew them better than anyone else. The rolled off his tongue as easy as a summer breeze. Tasting of heaven, soft, sweet, and velvety. He could not stop them. They flowed freely from his silver tongue. They came easily to him, loving the mischief they caused, the icy thrill that ran up his spine. He was the god of the after all—was he not?

Lies. How he hated them. He never hated them more. He could smell them, taste them, sniff them out better than any other. The aroma of dandelions and apples. How could he not have noticed? It was all so clear now, the stilling of waves across as stream, the difference between their hands. Thor’s so large, skin darkened to the color of golden honey, short squared fingers, blunt round finger nails. Large dominant Knuckles and the powerful sturdy muscles that lay beneath. And Loki’s hands? So small in comparison, pale and as cool as snow, long fingers, thin elegant wrist, translucent skin and blue veins that pulse hauntingly beneath the surface.

It was so obvious, except perhaps to one who willed blindness, he had been fooled most cleverly by something he knew best.

…

They were raised as brothers, every meaning of the word. Always together. They played as brothers, fought, cried and laughed as brothers. Scrapped knees, bruised elbows, tears that melded together. Thor’s strong arms wrapped around Loki’s thin knobby shoulder, laughs that fluttered out of their mouths as naturally as a butterfly’s wings.

They shared everything. Secrets, whispered low and soft into the black night, so that only their ears could hear. Stories of adventure and glorious deeds. Fears, of cold monster that haunted the darkest recesses of their minds. Little could they have known one was so close, closer than they ever could have imagined.

…

Loki should have been more honest, less blind. Denial, what a vicious creature it was. It was lain out in front of him like a map, he could see it all now. Every small detail. How mad must he truly be? To refuse to see, the disparity. He was not an Æsir. He never was. He should have noticed, the first pang within his chest should’ve been a warning. He lied to himself, refused to acknowledge the longing he felt. How vulgar it was, disgusting, nauseating, repulsive. The words that described the yearning he felt for Thor. Unnatural to feel such wasn’t towards one’s kin.

It should’ve been the first sign.

…

As a child snow had never excited Loki more, the soft way it flurried. The white puffs that stood no chance, at least not on their own, descending towards the green grass and when finally, they reached their destination they became whole. Something with a grander purpose, something that spread out as far as his eyes could see.

How he wished he could be so important, something so small yet so very large. Endless. He felt one with the snow, loved to roll in its downiness, so comfortable against his skin, the merriment he felt. Winter was Loki’s favorite season, summer all too blistering hot. Lying in the snow as Thor complained of the chill that slowly seeped into his bones, how willfully opaque could Loki be?

…

Why had Óðinn done it? Stolen Laufey’s bastard child. He had dreamed of having meaning, but none such as this, ever as his father—lies! Óðinn was never his father—spoke the truth of his birth, Loki wished the words would fall on deaf ears. But he was all too aware the meaning that Óðinn’s resounding voice carried. The abandoned child of a _jötunn_ , left to die, unwanted for he was born so small. A shame to a race of beasts. His only saving grace?—Óðinn believed he may have use of him. He was little more than a relic in a vault, a prisoner of lies and fate.

How superfluous he felt. A monster, everything he feared and dread.

Tear stung his eyes.

…

He pulled a shard of glass embedded deep within his skin, a groan whispered through his drawn teeth. A dull burn spread through the sole of his foot as he slid down the wall of his chambers with a distraught whimper. How pathetic he had become.

He dropped the shard amongst the ink, watching droplets splatter like blood on the battlefield.

Eyes green and weary, his long fingers reach out to capture the blue ink, droplets leaving rounds tattoos on his pale skin. He spread them out, painting his arm and skin blue.

Disgusting.

He dropped his head to the ground, ink and glass tickling his forehead. He fist ebony locks, pulled until his scalp throbbed with pain. It was better than the emptiness that swelled within the cage of his ribs.

He screamed. How so much could change in one day.

…

They should have never gone to Jötunheimr.

…

He had not meant for any of this to happen, for Thor to get banished. It was all a bit of fun really. To prove that Thor was not yet worthy of the crown he sought.

He never wanted to face the reality of his birth, wishing for blissful unawareness.

But his games, his lies, his mischief had all backfired.

…

There was cruelty in his plan, it was simple and true, but cruel. Thor was not yet ready to be king. And as much as he loved Thor, he was foolish, arrogant, and selfish. Not the qualities befitting of a king. It was simple, a few Jötnar would invade Asgard, disrupt the coronation. The kingdom would be saved from Thor’s impudent rule a while longer, giving him proper time to mature.

It had all gone wrong, how could something so simple turn out wrong?

…

Tears polled on the surface of the ink, marbling into an array of blues. Loki clawed at it, willing the shame and tears to leave, tinting his fingertips even more.

He wanted Thor.

Would Thor wipe away his tears and squeeze his thin shoulders in comfort even after discovering his true origins, like when the were children, so innocent and unaware. But that was gone now, washed away by hard truths.

How alone he felt, but even with Thor at his side, he was always alone. How could one feel such love and anger at the same time? He loathed himself for bring them to Jötunheimr. Loathed Thor ever more for following, but they always followed one another. Loki could never say no to Thor’s pleading eyes, as hot as the summer sky.

Heat and Lust pooled within his stomach, as he recalled the only time those eyes had ever looked at him with want.

…

Thor had kissed him once, drunk on mead and bloodshed from a battle mere house before. Loki never forgot. Even though centuries passed he never would. Thor’s legs weak with alcohol and exhaustion, Loki had helped him to his room, a long tan muscled arm around him for support. How nice it felt, to be touched by something so warm. How quick it happened, faster than the days on Midgard. Loki wished it would have lasted forever—a long time for Gods. Thor’s hands on his shoulders almost painful, pushing him against a wall, breath leaving his lungs.

When the air returned, he managed to hiss with false disdain, “What do you think you are doing?”

Loki always held his head high in the company of others, he believed it a strength, but knew it a weakness.

Thor didn’t answer, blue eyes hazed with drink and passion. It was that moment he realized what was happening. He should have fought it, fought harder. The moment of shame would live on in his soul, he knew now that shame held no purpose. The pain Óðinn could have saved, years of disgraceful longing.

“Thor!” He whispered softly, “Someone will see.”

Loki reached out to touch the hard chest in front of him, so hot beneath his grasp, The steady drum of his strong heart against Loki’s palm.

Thor swayed closer, his breath moist against my cheek.

“Please,” Loki whispered, his voice barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears.

He knew not what he begged for, for Thor to continue or stop.

Thor’s mouth covered Loki’s silencing any further words.

Wrong! But he could not stop it, it haunted his dreams, the ignominy would forever beat in his heart and he knew he wanted this enough to live with it.

He knew now if Thor was aware of whose lips he kissed, he was uncaring, kissing him back desperately. It was not his first tryst, if his forced mating with Svadilfar could be considered as such—the meeting resulting in their child Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse whom Óðinn claimed and took from Loki’s birth exhausted frame and rode into battle as his new stead—and it would not be his last.

Loki whimpered shameful as his lips were coaxed open, tongues, meeting and mating,

Thor’s hands on Loki’s lush hips pulling him closer, almost bruising. Loki wrapped thin arms around Thor’s thick neck, tracing the contours of his muscles, marveling at the strength, stroking the soft lengths of his wheat colored hair. Thor tasted of mead, heat, battled and forbidden fruit—as sweet as Iðunn’s youth giving apples.

They pulled away, panting and breathless, skin tingling. Loki’s mind reeled with self-disgust, how further down this road was he willing to go? For the thing he coveted most. Thor grabbed his hand, beckoning and pulling him to his room.

Loki knew the answer.

He followed Thor.

He always followed Thor—how weak he was.

…

When it was finished Loki lay awake, unsure of what to feel., the warmth of Thor’s body at his side, the slick velvet furs against their naked skin. He started at the ceiling, body feeling sore and used albeit not in a horrible way.

He rolled to face Thor’s tanned broad back, tracing the long line of his spine. Loki leaned over and kiss the square edge of his stubbled jaw, like he’d away wanted to. It would be his only chance, pulling away with a muffled sob Loki watched as Thor lay sleeping, slumbering away under a mix of post-coital bliss, drink and wars won.

He had to leave before Thor awoke, he could not be sullied. Thor was to be king and Thor always protected Loki, this was one small way he could return the favor—such slander of incest could not mark the name of a would be rule.

Loki stood and dressed, leaving the room without looking back.

…

Loki would always remember, and for a while the bruises his lover left were a constant souvenir. Over time the bruised faded but the memory of that night did not, remembered often with an ounce of inexplicable joy and a pound of profound self-abhorrence.

But Thor forgot.

As drink and time often cause.

…

He smeared blue across his chest with ink covered fingers. Even now the memory causing his blood to flame. But the events of Jötunheimr eased the shame of many years, how pointless his suffering was, they were not brothers. They never were.

Loki’s shoulders felt lighter, yet his soul remained heavy. The previous shame lessened only to be replaces with repugnance at his true nature. He looked down at the false blue painted across his pale skin.

He was Jötunn.

How he hated himself.

…

Thor wanted to go to Jötunheimr, they should’ve never reached the cold realm.

Loki wished he had known what lay ahead.

…

He would remember the day that came as undeniably one of the worst, the fear upon reaching the barren land of frost, the fear upon seeing the dreaded Jötunar, their skin so blue, eyes as rich as rubies, pattern tattooed deep within their leathery skin.

Their voice carried icily on the wind, a frightening sharp gravel that made Loki’s throat tighten with unease. And Laufey perhaps the most terrifying of all, king of the Jötunar and his sire. If he had known of his origins then, what would he have done. Loki was unsure, how unsettling, he was never unsure, every movement calculated. He supposed he was lucky at the time, never having calculated such a problem. He had remained ignorant of the monster crawling beneath the surface of his skin.

His only calculation?

Thor.

Leaving before he caused any damage, his concern brushed off with the hard jar of his should and a cold, “Know your place brother.”

Pain sparked harshly in his chest, was he not his equal.

He didn’t know his place anymore, stuck in limbo, not a god, not a beast.

…

Damaged was caused, the truce with Jötunheimr broken with the swift swing of Mjölnir. Thor’s anger best him, chaos broke loose, their fates forever lain upon this moment. Changed and sealed. A jötunn grabbed Loki’s arm, his breath halted, fearing the terrible sting of frostbite. It never came. His eyes widening when he saw what replaced it. The slow creep of Jötunn flesh over his skin. He wasn’t of Æsir. blood, how strange his first thoughts should be, Thor is not my brother, how strange the combination of self-loathing and joy he felt.

He killed the messenger.

…

He was alone, wasn’t he always? As Thor grew older, they grew farther apart. Loki knew not what to say to Thor. Thor favored battle. Loki seiðr. Thor possessed the strength of a strong oak, Loki a small sapling. Thor had his adventure and Loki? A good book. They grew apart, their conversations tortured. Their differences so very apparent. Loki resorted to mischief, stabbing, and sarcastic insult to gain Thor’s attentions and laughter.

It wasn’t how he wanted it, but it was the only way to achieve it. Thor so very close yet untouchable. Thor turned to maidens, flirting and pawing at their soft flesh. And although he knew it was unwarranted the bitter seed of jealousy wormed its way into Loki’s heart.

He wanted Thor to himself, something he never would have. Their brief tryst only known by him, never spoken of, something to be kept hidden behind locked doors and profound humiliation.

He was alone. Thor banished. Óðinn in the Óðinn-sleep.

He was alone with blue ink and false skin.

…

The throne was not what he sought, the would be king yes, but not the throne. It felt so hollow, meaningless. Thor’s friends knelt begging for Thor’s return, their voices laced with odium venom and scorn. Why did it please him so?

…

Darkness, suffocated him, he dreamed of Thor, of their lovemaking. The scrape of his beard along his thin pale neck, the way he bit Loki’s shoulder painfully as he rode him. Thor’s large tan hands holding Loki’s thing pale wrist above his head as he thrust deep within him. The panic, shame, lust, and hurt. It would never be anything more, the tender yet hard kiss they shared in the hallway, the terrible taste of mead upon his tongue. And the haunting thought that he would never want this any other way.

He drowned in it. He dreamed of Jötunheimr, of the jötunn’s hand on his, the tingle of his skin changing. The tattoos that ran down his forearm, the fear, the second of joy quickly replaces with self-disgust.

It consumed him.

He dreamed of Thor’s repulsion. Loki was Jötunn, thin, lanky and blue. Thor spat at his feet and turned away with disdain, Loki awoke. Covered in sweat and tears, it was Thor’s fault. He had caused Loki such shame when their lips touched, causing him to act on such an unnatural lust. It was Thor’s fault for fighting in Jötunheimr, now Loki knew the truth of his birth and had never felt such self-revulsion.

He covered his face, the ink from the night before still lingering beneath his finger nail, his breath coming in ragged pants haunting in the empty night.

Darkness had taken it’s hold.

…

He had to see Thor one last time, to confirm his anger and erase his lust, burn away whatever love remained. To soothe his pain. It hurt to think of Thor, a terrible deep ache within the pit of his stomach. Thor’s blunt deft fingers skimming over Loki’s pale wrist. The thought of touched only brought searing pain now.

He had to see Thor, to assure himself it was all a lie. Their laughter as children, the way those strong arms held Loki tight in the night when he awoke as a child frightened, plagued by nightmares.

Thor could never love a monster.

…

It was blinding, the white room, the lone chair, Thor seated upon it, shoulder slumped, and posture defeated, he had never seemed so weak. It was blinding. Thor was blinding. Perfect as always, golden hair, golden skin, fabric pulled taunt over a muscled chest, heat coursed through Loki’s veins. He should shame Thor, act on his lust so he could suffer as Loki had.

Thor’s blue eyes met Loki’s green, pleading and haunting.

“Loki,” Thor said, spoken with such sincerity.

Loki always followed Thor, he could not follow any longer.

He wouldn’t let Thor weaken his resolve with desperate eyes. Thor would feel it, would know his pain, the unwant he felt, a beast hiding beneath the skin of a god. Loki opened his mouth and lied.

…

It pained him, fire searing deep within Loki’s veins until he thought his heart may stop. He knew it shouldn’t, but any time Thor’s lips touched another, it pained him.

…

Jane foster, her name bitter on his tongue. She disgusted him, her soft voice and chestnut hair, the way Thor’s eyes met hers. He never looked at Loki like that, how he yearned for it so. She did not deserve Thor, a weak sniveling mortal wench. Loki would erase he before Thor’s eyes.

…

He knew now why Óðinn favored Thor.

…

The stories of Jötunar his false father told, how monstrous they were, appalling and frightening. Yet Thor and Loki, young and innocent would laugh with joy and alarm. How cruel Óðinn was, to tell such tales when he knew the blood that thrummed through Loki’s veins. It made sense now, the cruel punishments for such small misdeeds, locked away in his chamber wish lips sewn shut the metal tang of blood dry within his throat. What a joke he must have been, what fun Óðinn must have had at his expense. The disgraceful Jötunn son, it all made sense now.

…

Loki would shatter it, his disgrace, he would obliterate it, Laufey, Jötunheimr. He would erase it all. Óðinn would love him again—had he ever loved him. He would rip it from his heart, the pain. He would be Æsir. They would love him, he’d make sure of it.

…

Thor. The word that chimed with every beat of Loki’s unforgiving heart, whose drunken lips sought Loki’s in the starlit halls of Asgard. The reason behind everything he did. The friction of his chest against Loki’s back, hot with slick and sweat, heavy and pushing Loki further into oblivion with every desperate thrust.

Thor, His smile, his charm, his eyes, his laughter. Would he ever stop haunting Loki? The destroyer would make sure of it

…

He would kill Laufey, the jötunn king invading Asgard, with the help of his shadowy tricks. Óðinn would rejoice, Loki would rejoice to feel the silky heat of his sire’s blood on his thin hands. If there was no Laufey there was no Laufeyjarson. He watched the last breath the blue giant took and killed him. Pleasure bursting in very cell of his being _, ‘Look at me now,’_ his mind hissed, _‘look at how far your abandoned son has come!’_

…

Snow against his pale skin, the sapphire palm against his wrist, the tint that spread over his arms, the cool tingle. His breath coming in frantic panting puffs of white mist, He was Jötunn—a monster. He would destroy Jötunheimr, he would be free.

…

Thor what poor timing he had, time never on his side. If Thor had not been banished, what would have become of Loki? Would he had soothed his cracking heart?? Wash all his pain away? Did Loki ever stand a chance? There was no focusing on the past, no what ifs or turning back. It was all behind him. Smiles, laughs, forbidden kisses, all gone. It was too late. Time was slipping through his grasp flitting through his fingers like sand. Thor had found him, his eyes said it all. It was too late.

…

The Bifrost built, the branch of Jötunheimr torn from the world tree, a terrible chill filled the observatory as he watched with black eyes, ice crystals freezing the air. His skin pale silver as rime filled his lungs. But his body felts so warm, their deaths a delightful chorus of screams in his head.

He could feel it, what pleasure it brought. With each Jötunar death his heart beat faster with satisfaction. The extinction of a race of monster, his true heritage gone. He would no longer be one of them, sweet freedom. The chime of the Bifrost cleared Loki’s thoughts.

He knew who stood behind him and yet he still turned to see him, his Thor, his eyes a sea of despair.

…

When Loki was young terrible nightmares often woke him, fiery fear burdening his small chest. Pained breaths and little cries. He would climb from his bed and on light and silent toes sneak into the room of his elder brother, always a source of comfort, always protective.

His voice small in the ever-surrounding night, “Can I sleep with you?”

Loki could not see Thor’s face, but he was sure he could hear the quick blink of his waking eyes.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

How strange it was that sleep was so kind to his voice, the normal velvet now a smooth rasp.

“Yes.”

The whoosh of moving furs was the only answer Loki needed, scurrying with the nervous quickness of a mouse Loki rolled beneath them. Thor radiated, how wonderful it felt against Loki’s cool skin.

“You are always so cold, brother.”

His arms wrapped around Loki’s thin figure, Loki cuddling closer, curling around the warmth, starilight wavered in, kissing their skin, his inky hair lying across Thor’s bare chest.

“What did you dream of?”

Loki curled closer still, never close enough.

“Jötunar,” Thor’s hand rubbed his back, tracing the sharp angle of his spine shoulder and hips.

“I will protect you Loki, I will slay every one of them.”

How comforting those words had been, Loki drifted off to sleep with their reassurances on his mind.

How disturbing they were now.

Would Thor kill him because of his natural form.

Thor couldn’t protect him from himself.

…

Thor tried to stop him, disappointment and regret so clear upon his golden countenance. Why would he want to save the Jötunar, a race he so clearly loathed?

“And what of this new-found love of frost giants?” Loki asked, trembling pain barely disguised beneath each word. He wanted to sob, scream, burying his face in Thor’s chest and beg.

_‘Would you love me then? Would you love me if I was Jötunar? A monster?’_

Loki would never speak those words, his pride a wall he was not willing to break down. It was all he had left, his world falling apart beneath his feet. He would not take it, the way Thor looked at him with betrayal and hurt. As if he truly was a monster. He snapped, lighting exploding within his breast, he lashes out, striking him with the sharp metal of his spear. Yes! The look in Thor’s eyes, pain and anger.

 _‘Take it out on me,’_ His mind begged, _‘Bruise me, scar me, hurt me, make me bleed.’_

“Fight me!”

Loki wanted Thor’s marks on his skin, if that was the only way he could have him, he would have it, relish it, the sweet pain, the purple that would blossom on his pale skin.

“I wont fight you, brother!”

Brother!

How sick it made him, the word so deep and caring from his lips.

“I’m not your brother I never was,” Loki spat.

_‘Comfort me, bruise me, pull me into your arms. Tell me I’m fine, hit me, kiss me, make me bleed.’_

Anything was better than the silence that spoke so loudly.

“Loki, this is madness.”

Madness? Yes. He knew it was.

…

Jealousy. He lived his whole life feeling jealous, the green monster forever sitting upon his should. He was jealous of Thor and all his golden charm. Was jealous of the attention Óðinn gave him, of the maidens who shared Thor’s kisses so freely. Nothing would compare to the spite that consumed him now. Jane Foster, the Midgardian wench he failed to kill, she stole Thor’s heart. But Loki supposed it was never his in the first place.’

He hissed insult, telling Thor he would pay her a visit. Lies. He never yearned for a woman in his life. Fire sparked with the depth of Thor’s eyes. How protective he was of her. How jealous that made Loki. Breath halting in his chest, he did not know if he could take another. It burned. It hurt.

Tears pricked his eyes.

Thor charged.

This wasn’t what he wanted—he did not want Thor to fight for her.

…

Jötunheimr was saved, Thor the savior to a race of icy beasts, The Bifrost shattered beneath the blow of Mjölnir. The impact sent them flying, reeling, twisting like a doll in the wind.

 _‘Let this be the end,’_ Loki pleaded hopefully.

But there was no hope left, it had shattered with the Bifrost. Thor’s large hands caught him, dangling from the edge of the rainbow bridge, the emptiness beneath him, the pull of the darkness below, Thor’s desperate face above Loki.

Why? He could drop him now and end it all. The muscles of Thor’s arms strained to support Loki’s lithe frame, the arms that he’d him, hugged him, tensed with passion as Thor held himself over Loki’s lanky pale form. Thor’s knuckles turned white with effort. The hands of the mighty Thor trying to save a monster. Hands that had dried his tears and erased his fears, brought him to the brink of pleasure, whimpering, thrashing, keening, beneath their teasing caress.

How easy it would be to let go of them. To let go of it all.  He was nothing to them., to his father and his mother, And to Thor. He did not know. The abyss of space swirled beneath his toes. Beckoning, calling.

Loki would memorize every feature of Thor’s face, the crinkles around his blue eyes, his square jaw and chin, slightly chapped lips and prickly beard the color of wheat.

Thor, always shining above him.

His voice screaming, “NO!” would forever ring loudly in Loki’s mind.

He let himself slip from Thor’s grasp thinking, ‘How nice’ as he fell Thor growing smaller and smaller until he was unseen at all.

…

Perhaps that’s when it happened, when the seed of madness was planted, the night Thor branded him forever—the night of passion. He lost it all, the rasp of beard against his stomach as Thor kissed the sensitive skin beneath his belly button. Loki was lost. The animal like grunts that escaped, Thor’s lips as he rode him to mindless abandon. The teeth that bit at tender skin, marring Loki’s pale collar bone. The feeling of being utterly surrounded and filled by Thor, his soul and body not his own. The biting of lips, the twining of tongues, breath fanning across his cheek.

Loki was never his own.

Madness, it claimed his soul.

…

Loki fell for what seemed like an eternity, he knew not how long. He thought it would never end.

He cackled, the noise frightening. No, the end would have been far too kind.

He fell into nothingness, space swirled around him, black, purple, and blue all blending together. Pain erupted until everything ached, his limbs, his muscles, his bones. His mind twisted, memories, dreams, and nightmares becoming one until he wasn’t sure what was real anymore. The seed of madness had come to full bloom.

Loki fell.

…

Shattered, he landed with a crash, a sharp rock piercing his side as a shrill scream tore free from his throat. Loki was sure his hip had been broken, feeling as if tiny needles covered his entire body. He tasted blood, truly shattered in body and soul.

Somnolent and weary, his eyes too heavy to stay open, Loki let sleep claim him.

…

He sat on his bed in silence.

“Loki,” the sound of Thor’s voice caused tremors to run down his arms. He did not want to be seen like this—so broken.

“Loki.

He pulled up the blanket covering his knees and turned his face away to stare at the patterned walls.

Thor’s footsteps echoed loudly, breaking apart the fragile silence. Silence, Loki would be silent for a month.

“Loki, look at me,” the rumble of Thor’s voice breaking down his mask. A strangled noise formed in his throat.

“Please,” Thor’s large hand covered Loki’s slender one.

A pathetic noise burst free from his closed lips as he turned his eyes to Thor’s.

Thor’s sharp inhale of breath was disturbing for Loki knew how he looked, the twine crossing his lips sealing them closed, swollen and purple from the tug of a cruel needle and thread. His dried blood stark against his pained pale face.

Loki looked away, closed his eyes and focused on the silence. It would be his companion.

Fingers touched his chin and with hesitation lingering he opened his eyes.

Thor stood with a wet cloth, “May I?”

Loki nodded, it was all he could do, smothered by emotion as Thor cleaned blood from his face. Thor’s expression impassive, he wrung the cloth wetting his sewn lips, water seeping between the seams as liquid covered Loki’s dry starved tongue.

Thor dropped the cloth to the ground with a loud thud, his hands twinning with Loki’s.

Thor’s eyes averted, as his calloused thumb tracing Loki’s wrist.

“I am sorry,” He says as their eyes finally meet, Thor’s filled with concern, “Father did this to you because you lied for me, Thank you.”

Loki watched as Thor’s thumb traced his purple veins, saw the differences in their complexions, dark and light.

“I am sorry, I know that may sound cruel. I just—I am not very good with words. They were always your greatest tool, brother.” Thor’s attempt at conversation far better than any silence. Loki could almost hear Thor avert his gaze, smell his blonde hair as it moved—soil, ozone and daylight.

“You,” Thor started, a flush cover his cheeks and squared nose.

Loki cocks his head in question.

“You look as beautiful as ever,” Thor says, spoken as if it were all one word, quick and frightened.

Loki’s heart constricted, burying his head against Thor’s should to hide his tears.

…

He wasn’t sure what was real.

…

Hands pulled cruelly at his arms, jarring his sore body, Loki’s eyes shot open, vision blurred and foggy, blinded by pain.

“You’ll do nicely,” The words hot, wet, and rancid against his cheek. He scrunched his nose against the onslaught of smell, death, decay, rotting flesh. Thick and pungent.

Loki choked.

“He’ll have use of you.”

Loki was forced to his feet, pain blazing and radiating from his side, spreading to the tips of his fingers and toes. Blackness drowned him.

…

He was cold.

Thor dropped him into the void of space.

Or had he simply let go?

He was so very cold, calloused palms warmed him, Thor’s so dark tan against Loki’s hips. His blonde hair that smelled of outdoors ticking his shoulder. They were like Sól and Máni.

He was so very cold. The snow of Jötunheimr collecting on his skin. He would disappear, would be for gotten. His nails, fingers, hand chest and legs, every inch of his being turning blue.

The Æsir spat as his feet.

Cold.

Thor’s lips meeting Loki’s soft and unsure, harsh and desperate.

The cloth against his sewn Lips.

Loki was unwanted, would the remember him?

…

He woke screaming, heart beating a rapid rhythm, sweat dripping down his bare chest, harsh woven blankets around his naked legs.

Where had he been taken?

He glanced to his side, bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. He pulled them off, his wounds slight and faded. And his hip? He twitched his leg warily, a dull pain throbbing. It was better—healing. With great tenderness and care he swung his legs over the bed and stood on light feet, his naked skin illuminated by the silver light that sifted through the barred windows—prison. He tried so hard to escape, only to fall straight into another cage, cruel fate. Ironic. Locked up, until someone would have use of him.

…

How long would I last? The dreams, the nightmares, the memories. They haunted his every moment, reality blurring before his very eyes. Madness. Kisses. Touches. Laughs. Bruises. He was locked up, with visions that plagues him.

…

Time became an illusion, reality a lie. His captor came, time wavered. The smell of decay and rot. He heaved, fear raking its dreadful claws deep within his stomach.

“The fallen prince of Asgard,” Red rotten gums hissed vicious words.

How had they known?

“We know everything about you, such an angry soul filled with shame and self-loathing. Tragic really. You want revenge, your mind clouded with confusion. You’ll serve Thanos well.”

Anger burned full force and he bit the inside of his cheek, metal and pain tasting saccharine on his tongue. He spat at the beast’s feet, “I serve no one.”

Sparks exploded in front of his eyes, blood rushed down his throat, the hit unexpected. His head smacked the ground with a loud crack, the pain sharp and real. The imprints of two thumbs dark on his cheek. He clung to it, reality, clearing his vision. Let them kill him, it would end the madness and time.

…

Weary and tired, sleep evaded him, his nails scrapped down his tear streaked face, his knuckles scrapped and bruised against the harsh stone walls. Loki hid his shameful tears with cool palms. Tangles limbs haunted him. His sewn lips. The theft and enslavery of his only child. There was no mistake. He was a monster. The thoughts of Thor’s lips on another, the woman of Midgard. How he loathed them all—himself most of all.

If he could not have Thor’s love, he would have his every attention. Midgard would pay. He would serve the beats with two thumbs.

…

The pages of a spell book slipped through his hand, whispering as he trailed long fingers across the delicate ink. A chill ran up his spine, eyes, studying every inch of his figure. A tingle of awareness sparked, and Loki turned his sore body protesting. The bruises from the night before, hidden beneath his clothing, Thor watched him with a hooded expression, heat gathering in Loki’s stomach, hot and flush. He remembered the taste of mead Thor’s lips, slick flesh against slick flesh. How strange, the glint in Thor’s eyes.

…

The beast with two thumbs smelled of dandelion and apples.

Loki ignored it.

…

Mischief was his only true friend—constant companion. The perfect tool to gain what he wanted. It was his destruction, he could not escape it. His very soul.

…

Thor always found him, there was no hiding. As he sat in the library letting a book steal his sorrows or as he lay outdoors escaping tears and Óðinn’s angry words. Thor found him. He always did. With strong arms and soft words, Thor found him, pulling him against a warm chest so Loki could cry, tears unseen.

…

He knew he was being used.

…

How could Loki still miss Thor? How could his presence still bring him such warmth? Thor’s arms pressing him against a rock, how could his blood still sing with desire and want, when anger and betrayal had scarred his heart deep?

“I thought you dead.”

His eyes flickered to Thor’s lips. Mead. Passion. Laughter. And, did he detect sorrow?

His worlds swirled into one.

“Did you mourn?” He asked with disdain, how false it was. He had never longed for an answer more. He could not deny what Loki was, a monster. Did he love Loki still? Loki would give it all to hear Thor speak such words.

How weak he was.

“We all did,” Thor said without meeting Loki’s eyes.

Loki’s anger rose, Óðinn didn’t mourn, Thor didn’t love.

…

“You give up this poisonous dream, and you come home.”

Home.

Loki had no home.

….

The Midgardians placed him in a prison with clear walls, his shame and weakness only for him to see. He had many masks he wore, hiding his pain well from others.

…

Had Loki imagined it, the image engraved on Thor’s bracer. It could not be real. The image of his helmet carved upon the silver metal. Had Thor missed him truly? To place an image of him so close, his helmet of all things. It brought tears of mirth to his eyes, Thor’s strong muscled hands grabbing those horns, with bright teasing in his blue eyes, tilting back Loki’s head until a fine length of pale neck lay exposed.

His voice whispered so close that each word tickled the black hair upon the nape of his neck, “You look lovely, cow.”

It could not be real. It never was real.

…

Loki dreamed of forgiveness, acceptance, love. Thor’s embrace as he trailed lips over his cool jötunn skin, whispers of beauty in the dark silky night. Loki reached for it, the images vanishing before his eyes.

…

Loki would never forgive himself, and therefore would never be forgiven.

…

He escaped the prison with clear walls, it would not hold him. How foolish the Midgardians were, to fall for his simple trickery. How foolish Thor was to fall for his tricks, he’s Loki’s prisoner now, the clear walls holding him hostage.

Loki could erase it all, end it all now with the push of a button, destroying what ever fragile bond lingered. If any bond was left at all. Loki would destroy his shame, hate, disgust and love. He would destroy his weakness, be prisoner of no one, free from madness and emotion, it would all vanish with Thor. Loki pressed the button, watched Thor fall from the sky, knowing a lie when I tasted one. Thor would live, Loki longing lingered on with renewed vigor.

Would he ever be free?

…

“Let me go!” Loki cried, a chuckle escaping his thin lips as Thor pinned him to the ground.

“I will not, you must pay for what you have done.”

Loki scoffed, pushing at Thor’s broad shoulders knowing his attempt would fail.

“For what? Eating your dinner?”

“A very offensive crime.”

Loki gave another half-hearted attempt to escape and saw great intent in Thor’s eyes.

“Thor, no.”

Thor’s fingers found his ribs, tickling his small childish frame, his laughed carried away by the wind.

Loki could never escape Thor, he had taken root in his soul long ago.

…

Sentiments, how foolish his brother was. How foolish he was, as tears track down his cheek and he plunged a small knife into Thor’s side. Sentiments were for fools.

…

The assault on Midgard failed, he knew it would. His intentions flawed and weak. Driven by madness and passion. His conviction flawed.

…

Loki had never felt so low, the gag pushing into his skin, biting and painful. His head forced to hang in submission as he was leashed like an animal, brought to Asgard in chain to face his crime, little more than Thor’s war prize.

…

Loki’s end was finally near, so close he could taste the bitterness of it. The walls of his Asgardian cell mocked him, his life never anything more than an endless string of prisons. Each one different, some unseen and others hidden plain view. His end, he never wished for it more, he had truly become a monster, death lingered on his hands. He had let his beast best him, becoming what he feared most.

…

He was to be executed, knowing he should feel something, pain, relief, or fear. He felt only a terrible numbness.

…

Thor, the only thought that still wrought emotion, through his soul. His smile, his laugh, his comfort and teasing words. Their shared tears. He had forgot what it felt like, a far-off dream, a long-forgotten land. Their lips and straining bodies, mingled breaths, tasting of sweat and passion. Heat surged within Loki along with it desire and shame.

How he wished they could have had more time, how he wished they could have shared so much more. Thor with his arrogance and cocky attitude, his will to save all, his hope, how it angered Loki still. Betrayal that he had not been there when Loki needed him most, when his world came shattering apart and crashing down around him. However, he knew he could not hold Thor fully accountable. If only he’d realized sooner that fault was all his own, so blinded by rage and anger.

Thor, the only proof left Loki still held heart.

…

“Your execution is within the hour,” Thor spoke softly, the volume of it echoing loudly across the thin cell walls, “do you have any final words?”

Loki lifted green eyes from the floor, the chain preventing the use of his seiðr cutting painfully into the tender skin of his wrist.

“How low I must look to you, the golden prince of Asgard,” Loki was rewarded with a frown, “How disgusted you must be.”

Loki clung to his venom, Thor must not see how fragile his façade was becoming, how close to breaking he was, the havoc madness had reeked upon his mind.

“You could never disgust me brother.”

“I am not your brother!”

“I know.”

“And still you claim I don’t repulse you? How foolish you must be, after all I have done?”

After all he had done did Thor still have a place for him in his heart?

“You are my Loki and you always will be, nothing will change that. What you did is unforgivable, the destruction you caused, the lives you took. But nothing’s changed between us.”

Loki’s mask was cracking, voice burdened with the thick threat of tears, “Everything had changed!”

“No.”

Loki pulled at the bindings at his wrist, desperation and self-loathing clawing up his throat, “I could make you hate me.” Thor’s first clenched, his voice finally silenced. “If I spoke of—”

Do not say it, the shame would be unbearable. Loki would burden him forever.

“Spoke of what,” Thor’s voice finally rose in anger, sharp and raspy, bring a joyless smile to Loki’s lips.

“My unnatural lust.”

Something sparked in his eyes, akin to zeal.

“Towards whom?”

“You.”

Odd, to finally admit those words aloud. After centuries of guilt and shame. Loki waited for Thor’s anger, it never came. He waited for Thor to leave him, but he did not. Disgust was it then? Too disgusted to even move or speak. Loki would not meet his eyes, unable to bear the judgement.

Thor’s feet moved, shuffling, leaving after all.

Loki choked back a sob, he thought he broke the string that held them together long ago, now the bond of it was finally severed, lost.

“Loki.”

“So, you are still here after all,” Loki spat bitterly.

“Look at me.”

Loki mapped out every scratch of the floor.

“DO not make me beg,” Thor’s voice pause and lightened, “although I know you’d like it.”

It was his humor that made Loki’s eyes finally lift, the golden prince kneeling before him. Thor’s hands cautiously reached out to caress Loki’s sharp cheek bones, he turned into the warmth, curiously pressing his lips against the calloused palm.

“Did you ever act upon this lust?” Thor asked.

“Aye,” Loki admitted.

“May I ask when?”

“You were drunk on mead, I did not stop you.”

Loki’s eyes traced Thor’s thumb as it teased his jaw.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I did not want to shame you?”

“Oh Loki, so you burden yourself with this guilt?”

Loki averted his eyes, old wound ripped anew.

“Aye.”

All those years of meaningless suffering, loathing and self-disgust had never left.

“What if I told you I had never forgotten,” All the air left Loki’s lungs, his head dizzy and heart skipping a beat, “What if I told you I believed you had forgotten? That I hid my shame and would not mention it for fear of causing you pain?”

Loki bit down hard on Thor’s palm, the taste of rust filling his mouth.

“I would call you a liar!” Yet the air remained stale, free of dandelions and apples.

Panic set in, it could not be true. Yet all evidence pointed in that directions.

A tear leaked free from Loki’s eyes and he clawed it away, Thor catching his wrist and pulling it down, chain clinking.

“Sheath your talons and fangs, Loki.”

Thick fingers met Loki’s, tangling together.

“I woke up after that night, head pounding, I had dreamed of you, or at least I had believed it to be a dream—I dreamed of you often. But I would have never acted on such lust. I would never have wanted to harm you—to shame you with the want I felt. This dream had been so different, the sounds you made, the feel of you beneath me, so small and so soft. You seemed so breakable, it seemed so real. A dream I told myself.”

Thor gave their tangled fingers a squeeze.

Loki could see his heart beat, steady on Thor’s wrist. The blood rung loud in his ears.

“At dinner the next night as you lifted your cup, your sleeve fell back exposing your pale wrist—the wrist I loved so much.”

“Do not try to flatter me with compliments,” Loki hissed becoming to uncomfortable., to aware. Afraid of the vanishing guilt and ignominy—for without them what was left of him.

He heard Thor smile, “It wasn’t the beauty of the thin fine lines that drew me in. No, but bruise in the shape of finger tips covered your skin. I knew then it was all true.”

“And you did not confront me about this?!”

“You are just as guilty as I, both of us with similar intentions, protecting each other from shame we thought easier to carry alone.”

Loki loathed the noise that came from his throat.

Pitiful.

He was pulled against Thor’s hard chest, the contact of their hands never breaking. Thor’s lips buried deep against Loki’s nape. His tears coming freely, he hid them no longer. His cheek pressed against Thor’s blonde hair, the smell of lightening and fresh air surrounding him.

“Do not pretend you never noticed,” Thor rasped against Loki’s pale throat, lips kissing the tender skin there as words left him, “The way I looked at you, I could never leave your side. I was utterly enthralled, the way you smelled of apples, dandelions and herbs, so fresh and clean. The way you long fingers turned the pages of books, the sharp angle of your long legs as you sat, the way your skin glowed like night. I was lost. Every maiden I bedded, I pretended their lips were yours.”

Tears burned his throat, a lump forming, restricting Loki’s voice, “How broken I have become.”

“Not broken, lost, there is hope.”

“For me there never was.”

“There is always hope.”

Loki clung to Thor’s large frame, always reassuring and ever hopeful—Thor. He would never have enough of Thor’s warmth. It was so sweet, sweeter than lies. Sweeter than dandelions and apples, sweeter than childhood and innocence and laughs. Sweeter than the secret kisses he held onto with such pain and guilt. So bitter sweet, that it would end this way.

Thor squeezed his hand, his face mere inches from Loki’s, breath fanning hotly across his thin lips.

Loki trembled, willing the space between them to close, their lips finding each other, in a final kiss, tasting of memories, happy times, a world free of pain and execution. Tasting of a world where hope excited and Thanos didn’t eagerly await Loki’s death. Tasting of protective words spoken in the dead of night, of comfort and warmth, a world where monster did not exist. A happy future. Tasting of love. How could he have never noticed Thor’s love that surrounded him. So blind and foolish, willed denial, to not realize this love until now. So obvious it was.

They pulled apart, skin flushed and hearts heavy, he never wanted it to end like this, for now it was just the beginning.

Thor gave his hand one last squeeze, curling long fingers upon themselves and stood.

Loki froze, chained in place.

“Goodbye, Loki.”

“Goodbye, Thor.”

Loki watched as he left, board shoulders swaying with each step, blonde hair fluttering softly. He turned giving Loki one last smile, blue eyes filled with love and hope.

The prison door closed, and Loki was alone, tasting the salt of his own tears.

He clenched his close palm tightly willing Thor’s love to stay with him, willing the image of his brother to be the last on his mind.

…

His palm felt heavy, something digging into the tender skin, his clenched finger unfurled, and his eyes opened.

He laughed, he should’ve noticed it, the dandelions and apples on Thor’s goodbye kiss. On their ‘final’ kiss.

A gold key sat nestled against his palm, illuminating and glowing, with hope.

…

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo please! this is my very first thorki fic and fanfic ever originally posted on fanfic.net back in 2012 and sadly it still exists up there in its horrific and original version, i quickly rewrote it and am reposting it because im oddly attached to it. its unbeta'd. enjoy??? thoughts and comments always appreciated, love to hear what you think.


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